April Fools

“April is the cruelest month.” That’s what T. S. Eliot wrote.

For North Carolina, the month just ended takes that dishonor. The capstone of our state’s cruelty: sweeping anti-LGBT legislation passed on Mar. 23 by a specially called session of the Republican-led General Assembly. Our governor signed the bill within hours.

No transparency. No discussion. Just discrimination, hate, and as N.C. Policy Watch Executive Director Chris Fitzsimon writes, a “carefully orchestrated mix of fear, fundamentalist ideology and political expediency.”

Speaking of fear, the king of fear-mongering showed up in our town earlier in the bitter month of March.  The day before the NC primary, candidate Trump came to Hickory to elicit more media attention, solicit votes, and drive more wedges into a polarized community. Our local university, Lenoir-Rhyne, doing its proper free-society duty, opened its Lutheran doors for what had no prayer of being an open discussion.

I bicycled through the campus the evening before the rally. The company arranging the chairs on the stage for our national Titanic was named, “It’s My Party.” If those three words do not describe this man’s approach to our democracy, what does?

Trump supporters line up in the early morning fog.

Our town's Trump event, carefully choreographed by his hate handlers, was more peaceful than others. There were confrontations, yes, arrests and injuries, but they were modest compared with Chicago, Fayetteville, and others.  I credit this relative peacefulness to our rally’s organizers – professors, staff, and students -- and to the Lutherans. 

I’ve never seen so many clerical collars in one place.  When the clergy started arriving, like swallows to Capistrano, I was comforted. And, this flock sings, knows all the words, and even brings songsheets for the rest of us. Vastly outnumbered by the supporters in line to see Trump, protesters – young and old, black and white -- stood in front of the school’s Grace Chapel and sang, creating a harmonious counterpart to the Trump line that snaked across and around the campus.

In front of Lenoir-Rhyne University's Grace Chapel

I had to leave early – yes, I missed the main event – because I teach in the mountains on Mondays and Wednesdays. The fog shrouding Hickory lifted as I traveled farther away from the cloud Mr. Trump brings wherever he goes.

Days later, the darkness returned with the NC general assembly’s hateful legislation. I thought the dark planet was fiction in Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time. Instead, North Carolina seems to be competing for the Camazotz title.

Yet, Hickory's own Mrs. Whatsit -- Garrison Keillor -- arrived yesterday evening to fight the dark thing at the same auditorium that hosted Donald Trump and his acolyte Chris Christie.

A packed house. Keillor ambled on stage, which held only a wooden stool. He arrived early, before the start time, before the announcements, before the formal introductions. With flapping jacket and baggy pants, in a red tie and red socks, before our eyes, he became a human pitch pipe. He hummed. He started singing “My County Tis of Thee.” We all – 1,450 souls – joined in. We sang another song. And then another. We sang “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” the national anthem, and ended our prelude with the Beatles’ “I Saw Her Standing There.” The audience members over 60, much of the crowd, knew those lyrics.

Our unaccompanied voices created a cleansing. No, this could not be the same hall that housed hate just days before. It was sacred, a place of harmony not discord. Sure, there were jokes about not being trumped and about restrooms, given the new NC law, but the gentle American humorist and storyteller, in his sonorous radio voice, assured us we were one country.  Everything would be okay. And then it was. He transported us to Lake Woebegone with tales of a crazy uncle, a large dog, a bowling ball urn, a pontoon boat, and more. 

The fog lifted. There was light. We were united by laughter.

That’s how you bring people together … with joy and song and humor.

That’s a place where I want to live.

Note:  Here’s a wonderful recent article Garrison Keillor wrote cautioning Americans who are thinking about emigrating if Trump becomes president.

Fledglings and Flying Away

I’ve been thinking about birds. Oh, I’ve long been a birdwatcher and fill the feeders here, especially during the recent snow. But, today, my thoughts turn to fledglings, the young ones leaving the nest.

Fledgling. What a great word. It’s when the young bird has developed wing feathers large enough for flight and muscles strong enough to power them.

Oh, and that is all at about two weeks of age.

Yesterday, our 20-something fledgling left our nest. Not for the first time, nor her original nest, but her homing instinct is strong.

Yes, my husband I and were two of the faces on those statistics about millennials – those born after 1981 -- living with their parents. Over the past year, we had one of those 16.7 million young adults (26 percent of twenty-somethings) living in our home.

And, it was fine. It took some adjusting, for all of us, but we got along and we provided a safe and secure refueling spot for our “DC bird.”

You never hear about boomeranging birds. If they do come back to the nest, rather than to Capistrano, they do it covertly. According to one source, in the avian world “most young birds are totally on their own after they leave the nest…the parents migrate south long before their youngsters do.”

  

Hey, we did that. Maybe my bird analogy is working. We raised our daughters in a stable and sturdy Northern Virginia brick nest and then two-and-a-half years ago pulled up our nesting materials – discarded some, too – and migrated south to a North Carolina stone house.

Unlike nestlings and hatchlings with days in their nests, our daughters had a sense of home and stability for a quarter century. And, compared with birds, we were overly doting. Birds launch at just two weeks of age. “Helicopter parents” in the bird world are the permanent residents, like chickadees, finches, and nuthatches. These parent birds may no longer care for their offspring, but at least they are nearby in familiar territory.

Birds parent one way – instinctually. It’s harder for we bipeds, especially the human variety. We are subject to endless articles, advice, and opinions about parenting.  Yet, as Psychotherapist Robi Ludwig wrote, the purpose of parenting is to raise children who can “live life successfully and independently.”

Success. There are lots of ways to define it. To me, it means being content and contributing to society. Independent: well, that’s paying your bills.

Both success and independence have been our goals, whether in the DC area or to the south. That’s why I cried yesterday. Well, if you know me, you know I cry easily. Always have ever since I had children.

Still, I cried. I’ll miss my fledgling. I cried to see her fly away. I cried at the strength of her wings. And, I cried with the comfort she’s headed for success and independence in familiar territory.

The Power of Play

 I’ve been searching the Internet to learn how to build a horseshoe pit. Hell, there must be dozens of YouTube videos that will show me, step by step. We’ve got the acreage. Plenty of room for Piper and a horseshoe pit. I’ll need pressure-treated lumber, drill bits, a drill with a Phillips driver, sand, and a few other items.  Time to get out my virginal pink toolkit!

Maybe the tree can be the backstop.

Yes, it’s been interesting to see where 23 months of not working has taken me. The tomatoes and cucumbers are doing fine, thank you very much. The bell peppers, on the other hand, are scorched and shriveled. The weeds – no worries . They are thriving.

Lately, the lack of work – spring semester over, lighter client workload, oh, and not a major election year – and the summer weather has sparked my sense of play, like tossing 2½ pound horseshoes at a stake in the ground or lofting corn-feed-filled bags to a distant hole.

I love games, but I’m not ready for bingo and mahjong, the stereotypical retirement-home games. I don’t like to be seated and indoors that long. After 40 years of work, and with the ability to still toss shoes, balls, and beanbags, I enjoy the sheer fun of playing games, both real ones and made-up ones. My favorite made-up game:  Hiding Spike the dragon.

Yet, I do remain stationary for those addicting Smart-Phone games, notably Words With Friends and Word Streak With Friends, produced by Zynga, which says its mission is “to connect the world through games.” Thank you, Zynga, for keeping me connected with distant friends in Florida, Maryland, and Virginia, and with my daughter when she may be only steps away.

Play is more than fun. There are benefits. Parents are encouraged to let their children play. Child play can foster creativity and learning, promote language development, release energy, help build social relationships, and so much more. Play is also good for adults. It can relieve stress, lighten the mood, get you moving, foster relationships, and also make you smile.

Look at the benefits of smiling. I remember being especially miserable at work and a fellow unhappy colleague telling me that smiling creates positive feelings. She’d come by my gloom-filled office and we’d smile forced smiles at each other. Then,

we’d check the Magic 8 Ball to see if new jobs were on the horizon. We’d part, smiles fixed in place.

There’s science to back up those fixed-in-place smiles. I like how blogger Sarah Stevenson explains it:  “Each time you smile you throw a little feel-good party in your brain.”

Every time I play – oh, and of course, it’s even better when this competitive gal wins – it’s a feel-good party in my brain.

I still like to work, and to contribute, but play is good fun. 

After all, shouldn’t retirement be a feel-good party?

While We Were Sleeping

Not long after I posted a blog entry on Dec. 5, 2014, saying I was taking a sabbatical from blogging, but would return if I had something to say, all of sudden I felt overwhelmed with potential blog topics.

For one, a week after the Dec. 5 post, I flew to Texas to help younger daughter pack, clean, and move on from her life and studies at the University of North Texas. That same trip I stayed with and had what I fully expected to be the final farewell with my beloved aunt. (And, it was.) Eager to put miles and memories of Texas behind her, my liberal daughter couldn’t drive east fast enough.

Some 1,076 miles later, my daughter and I got home in time for Christmas and a California family crisis. A bomb, of sorts, had exploded. This turn of events – medical crises, hastily arranged visits, roiling emotions, amongst an abundance of dysfunction, was simply too intense, too personal, too much to blog about.  Someday, maybe I can transform the characters and events of that time into something, perhaps a dark story or bleak play. Now, I could barely craft a Tweet on the topic.

The good news:  my mother is alive and well. And, my “nuclear” family rallied. I am gratified by the stoic support of my husband and daughters. Even Piper pitched in with unwavering canine support.

This is what unwavering canine support looks like.

Teaching and driving to App State in Boone over the spring semester was a welcome distraction, except for the day a hurried pickup truck driver slammed into my daughter’s car. In a sweet change of roles, she was driving me to school. Fortunately, we were uninjured, but we said goodbye to a trusted means of transport.  I loved that car, originally mine, but blogging about a car. Okay, it could have been about loss, fragility, the unfairness of fate.

April brought another possible blog topic:  my brand-spanking-new Medicare card. I turned 65 and getting that card seemed a big demarcation point. You are young, or at least not old, and you don’t have Medicare.

Then, suddenly, there’s a Medicare card in your wallet and you are old. Okay, I’ve been hearing from AARP for years, but this is different: 65 means senior citizen. As an official senior citizen, I am grateful for my health and for the Medicare benefits that will help me maintain it and my quality of life. Oh, I’m checking into those senior discounts. Oooh, thank you, Delta Air Lines.

It’s mid-May, my sabbatical over. I’m restless and feel as if I should be working.  I don’t feel retired. This phase of life remains unsettling and uncharted.

I think I’ll go pull some weeds.

Six Words and a $10 Tomato

 It’s done. Well, it’s mostly done. The Wink and Glo Memorial Tomato Garden (WAGMTG) is planted. The soil was prepped (oh, my, the weeds), the plants put in the ground the best I know how, and, since this photo was taken, cages assembled to support their growing branches.

The soil and sun here is so phenomenal it should offset my shortcomings as a budding gardener.

Glo is Gloria, my late aunt. She died May 1 and in the last weeks of her life when I’d tell her my struggle to garden without hurting some body part, she’d tell me how Wink, her late husband, would joke about the $10 tomato – for all the expense and effort to grow one.

Now, these two – Wink and Glo – merit more than a memorial tomato garden, but it’s a start. Growing up, I loved telling friends, heck, telling anyone, I had an uncle named Wink and an aunt named Glo.  Nicknames are big in my mother’s family. My mom is Honey and Molo. Her aunts, well, I could never keep them straight – Polls, Lolly, Pills, oh, I give up.

When I was little, Wink and Glo were fun names and fun people. They hosted many a family gathering and watched my brother and me when we were little. It’s only when I reconnected with them years later that I realized how apt their names. Wink always had a joke or story. Sometimes it was a new joke, often an old story.

And, Glo, well, she glowed with love and laughter and life. In reading up on how to write an obituary I found some guidance. It said find six words that capture a person. Words for Glo: devoted, loving, fun, solid, loyal, and fair. She was so loyal, if she felt I’d been wronged, she’d say, “Do you want me to write and tell them?”

           

I’d say no, but appreciate the offer, the loyalty, and the love.

I miss you, Glo. See you in the garden.